


You Don't Want to Waste It

by prodigalDaughter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Kissing, Krypton, M/M, gas masks and their kissblocking effects, poor boys, seriously they just want to make out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalDaughter/pseuds/prodigalDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gas masks are cool: that much is undeniable. But sometimes Jake really wishes he could just kiss his boyfriend. Originally for the meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Want to Waste It

It had taken a week after entering the Game for you to become officially a couple, and another week after that before you kissed his living mouth. If you had ever had doubts that this was what you wanted, they vanished at that moment, standing in the ruins of a stone circle, his hand gently placed at the nape of your neck, his lips thin and dry and his heartbeat pounding as fast as yours.

A month before the changes in his body from Jane's cooking started to show, and you knew how happy he was about that. Even after you parted ways with the girls, you both ate like kings, since she'd written down the captcha codes for every meal she made and given them to you. Alchemized versions of Jane's food were never quite as transcendental as the originals in taste, but the nutrients were there and Dirk was slowly but steadily recovering from the way he'd been. Sometimes he still frightened you, worried you, with his protruding ribs that you could feel through his shirts, the sheer narrowness of his thighs, but the more he ate the more his musculature bulked out and the healthier he looked. He'd scoffed when you suggested he'd be bigger than you someday, citing his brother's body type as evidence he'd always be lean, but you didn't mind either way so long as he got healthier. Every day that passed he was more beautiful to you. 

Two months in, you'd found that adventuring was better than you'd ever had it before when there was someone at your side. Fighting together was exhilarating, hauling him up over the edge of a sudden rise in the mound when he could've climbed it himself made him raise eyebrows and dryly call you his hero, even alchemizing clothes was enjoyable despite the fact you found clothes a bit boring. He'd also coaxed you into shorter shorts than you might have otherwise chosen, but that had been worth it for the look on his face. 

Three months in and you'd moved on to his Land, which made friendly banter a little more difficult given the toxic atmosphere. You'd had to resort to Pesterchum, which was unfortunate given how much you'd been enjoying the sound of his voice. You had alchemized your mask partly out of your skulltop, so whatever he said flashed up right in front of your eyes, but it was still a pity. It had, however, got you both back into the habit of saying things mildly more explicit than you might do aloud. In a fit of boldness you'd made a joke about being a growing lad with Needs that were not being fulfilled, and he'd frozen for a moment before backing you up against the stone wall of a tomb, pressing his temple hard against yours, holding you, and at your quickly-typed _Yes_ he'd grasped at your thighs and rocked into you like you could press your bodies together so tight you'd become one person. 

It has been four months since you met Dirk in person for the first time. You have come in his fist, across his belly, in your shorts; you are intimately familiar with the weight and warmth of his cock in your hand, but you have not kissed him since you left LOMAX thirty-three days ago. When you sleep, uncomfortably on your back because your mask juts out to the sides, he lies against you with his head on your chest and focuses his attention on the splinter of himself in a bubble somewhere. You've gone looking for him, out there, but you haven't found him yet, and your heart aches with how dearly you want to kiss his lips. His gloved palm gliding under your shirt makes you bite your tongue, you feel empty, you feel painfully far away even though he's right next to you. 

You asked him about it once, if there was any chance you could go without the masks for a few minutes, and the quirk of mournfulness on his face when he told you no sent the flare of want up through your chest again. You would go numb, he said, like diving two hundred feet down, delayed responses, it would fuck up your reasoning, you might get anxious or over-confident, could hallucinate or go hysterical-- and then, he pointed out, you would suffocate, because there is not enough goddamn oxygen in this air. You remembered him alchemizing his mask in part out of diving gear (old, hundreds of years old gear; when you first went through the gate and he showed you around his apartment you were astounded by how everything he owned was either of his own make or a ruin) and you trusted his judgement.

Now that he knows you want to kiss him as badly as he wants to kiss you, though, he exploits it: on the occasion that you're separated to fulfill some quest requirement he sends you lascivious and descriptive messages about how he'd suck on your lips, lick your mouth open and breathe your air, and you write him back with stumbling, incoherent complaints about being distracted. He wants you as much as you want him.

You've both developed the tendency to press your temples together when you wish you could kiss, or to cross your neck with his. He taps just behind your ear with two fingers, gently. He is helplessly affectionate. Sometimes he will hold you from behind, his chin on top of your head, his chest against your back, his long arms folded around your body, and you will squeeze your eyes shut and try to ignore the loneliness of your mouth, the way your breathing is amplified by your mask and mocks you.

He's found evidence as to the location of his Denizen, he says, but you're not heading that way. There's something he needs to find first-- he doesn't specify, just says that it's quest-related, and you're not sure even he knows what it is he's looking for. The direction to look, though, is in the depths of what you really want to call a crypt but he says you're not supposed to. You don't like using the word tomb over and over, though, it feels narratively unsound. This place is like a dungeon or a labyrinth; you are floors and floors below the surface of his land, and the thankfully-empty catacombs are shadowy and dramatic in the faint light from your lantern. Your footfalls echo. 

You clear the fall of rock from the head of another narrow staircase and crawl down it, him folded up comically to fit his long body down, you crunched together to make way for your broad shoulders. At the bottom is a dead end, a room with no doors, and you mumble some choice words of frustration which are helpfully carried over to Dirk through your mask's speech-to-text converter. His chuckle comes back to you the same way, and you are about to head back up the stairs when a soft beeping begins to sound from his sylladex. He looks surprised, pulls out a gadget you've never seen before, and stares at its readout like it insulted his brother.

You ask him what the devil is going on, and he's so busy being annoyed at the thing that's it's a good while before he manages to tell you that there's breathable air in the room. You don't have the faintest idea why he would be upset at that revelation, but he keeps on complaining about how krypton is heavier than air, and it doesn't make sense for this room to be safe when the rock fall wasn't even air tight, and how clearly the game is not adhering to the laws of physics. The laws of physics, in your opinion, were long since broken when your masks were somehow connected without a cord to the oxygen tanks which remain in your respective sylladices, but this is hardly the most important thing at the moment.

You ask him how long the room's pocket of air will hold out for, and when he tells you there's a good half hour you shut him up entirely by fumbling with the straps of your mask.

Dirk is very good at changing gears quickly, and he's slung his mask into his sylladex and hurried over to help you with yours before you've managed to open the clasp. He chuckles at your clumsiness, you stick out your tongue at him, and suddenly his eyes are focused on your mouth. He's tucked his shades into his collar, and you do the same with your glasses as you suddenly both move slow.

The air, though breathable, is thin, as if you were on top of a mountain, and your heart hammers in your chest as he places his hand in the small of your back. His eyes burn in the lamp-light, and you cannot bring yourself to look away as he leans down and presses his lips to yours.

He's a little cold, like his circulation isn't perfect, but you already knew that from holding his hand, stroking his veins where you could see them through his skin, all the way up his pale, freckled arms. Just this light touch and you feel as if you might faint. You almost want to ask him if he's really sure the air in here is all that, but he's breathing just as tentatively and carefully as you, and his nose is pressed into your cheek, and you can smell his skin and you don't care. You set the lantern down in one of the alcoves and clasp your hand around the swell of muscle in his shoulder, feeling it move as he wraps that arm around your back and pulls you up close. You want more of him, and you press your lips against his harder, opening your mouth to dovetail with his and you hear him gasp, which is incredible. 

He sucks on your lower lip like he promised, and you feel dizzy, would collapse if it wasn't for his arms around you. He feels it, and eases himself down to the floor, leaning against the wall with you in his lap. You're momentarily not sure where to put your hands, but when he curls his tongue behind your big front teeth and tugs, you just grasp onto his shirt for dear life. You've so missed the sounds he makes, little gasps and moans that were always muffled by his mask when you were fisting his cock or grinding against him, and when you grunt in return his lips quirk up at the corners. He strokes your palate with his tongue while he's unbuttoning your jacket, smoothing one hand across your chest before he goes back to cupping your face in his hands. 

You're as tall as him when you're on his lap, so you can press back into his kisses easily, trying to reciprocate but having so little idea of what to do. Kissing him a month ago seems like a dream, and as you lap at his tongue a warm chuckle resonates through his chest. You can feel it in your knuckles, and you're almost offended except that you're not sure he's complaining, because your inexperienced and inelegant mouth-licking makes his dick twitch in his trousers, and you can feel that too.

You don't even really feel the need to do anything about it, though, even though you're just as hard; you can smell his skin and touch his face and stare into his eyes from two inches away and that's more than anyone could ask for. You're gasping, and you don't know how much of it is from the thin air and how much of it is from the hungry way he draws your tongue into his mouth and sucks on it, but as you groan and paw at his hair you start to realise that you're definitely a little uncoordinated, a little compromised. It isn't that bad, not worse than the one time you went climbing up the volcano back when you were younger, but you know the air won't last too long and you don't want to waste it.

He's breathing heavily against you too, head drifting a little as he peppers loose-lipped kisses to the corners of your mouth, and your lungs feel a little empty but your heart feels full. You mumble your concerns against his cheek and he nods, says you don't have much longer, and drops his head quietly to your shoulder. He tries to suck on your collarbone, but as good as that makes you feel you pull him back up by the hair, press your mouth to his again, feel out the shape of his teeth with your tongue and rock into him slightly as the aching in your dick becomes unbearable. Your thumb rests just beneath the corner of his jaw as you pet his throat, and he holds you close and kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you until your chest is burning and your eyes water and he shoves your mask at you in a panic.

You hold it to your face and take long, slow breaths as he, just as overcome, retrieves his own from his sylladex and does the same. You almost scold him for disregarding aeroplane safety, but it's a joke that you're pretty sure would fall flat. You only know the phrase from movies anyway. 

Once you've done up the clasp properly so your mask will stay on without you holding it there, you sigh and lean forward against his chest, pressing your temple to his. 

He thanks you, and you can just barely hear the words muffled through metal and plastic at the same time as they flash up on your screen. You thank him back, even though you're not certain exactly what for. For kissing you, for loving you, for letting you sit on his lap. His hand returns, slowly, to your shoulderblade, rubbing gentle circles into your spine as you get used again to breathing stale but full air. You mumble incoherently, your helmet attempts to parse it and comes out with total gibberish, and you both chuckle.

You're getting your strength back, and you wonder if it ought to be strange to you, sprawled across your boyfriend's lap in an enormous gas mask at the bottom of a labyrinthine tomb on a planet which should not exist. It is strange, but no stranger than anything else has ever been, you suppose. And as he rubs his thumb gently under the hem of your shorts, you are content.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for this prompt on the meme: http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/38671.html?thread=40797199


End file.
